


Pretty Little Things

by FlyByMe



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Creepy Jonathan Crane, F/M, Gotham is in Georgia too now, I tried to make this a more realistic setting so sorry if this is very AU, Jonathan Crane is not a good person, Kidnapping, Kinda, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, Possessive Jonathan Crane, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, a lot of implied things going on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25659334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyByMe/pseuds/FlyByMe
Summary: When Abigail Bates is taken into police custody with blood on her hands and a dazed appearance, she has to recount what brought her into Jonathan Crane's sights and the circumstances that led to her escape.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Original Character(s), Jonathan Crane/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Five Strips of Ribbon

There's a feeling you get occasionally. Cold dread like a wet blanket placed on clammy feet. Anxiety like nothing you've ever felt before. Fear overpowering relief, grief, and sadness, because you know deep inside whatever made you feel like that was your fault. It's that sinking feeling you get when driving down a hill, or when your parents catch you doing something bad. It physically feels like something awful, and yet you know there's nothing really there besides your head.  
The drive to the police station was quiet. They first took me to the hospital, but I hadn't replied to anything they were saying. I was completely numb. What had happened? Where was I? Where was I going? The man, Jonathan, was he ok? Where was he? Had something happened to him? At the hospital they'd washed off blood. Was it his? Was it mine? I had so many questions, but when I'd asked (after jolting out of the stupor I was in) the officers ushering me into the station had refused to answer. The dread began to thicken, growing like a flurry of snow. Did I do something wrong? Was it my fault? Am I going to jail?  


They brought me to a nondescript room with a couple chairs, a table, and a blanket sat on on of the chairs. One of the officers took the blanket and draped it over my shivering form, though it did little to calm my nerves. Where was I? Where is Jonathan? Where is Jonathan? I wanted to go home. I wanted the blanket off of me. I wanted Jonathan back.  
"Abigail do you know where you are?" The man, Officer Gordon, identified himself earlier. "Something happened to you. It is my job to figure out exactly what and why. We know the basics. We know what you did, and that's alright, but you need to tell us why you did it, okay? You're not in trouble, Abigail."  
I took a deep breath, shuddering from the cold air. I felt gross. There was still blood crusted under my fingernails, snot running down my nose from crying, and a frog in my throat that wouldn't clear no matter how hard I tried.  
I picked at the dry blood. "Where should I begin?"

* * *

Almost two years ago, when I was seventeen, my father passed away from a heart attack. I suppose my mother knew it was coming, because she began funeral preperations far before his death. I thought it was morbid, but my dad always laughed it off with a grin. Yet despite my mother's planning, it did not prepare me for the impact his death caused me. No longer could he drive me to school when he needed the car. No longer could he go to my small town track meets to cheer me on, and no longer could he chase off the high school boys who wanted to date me.  
His funeral was open casket, and despite my wanting to see him one last time I could not help but feel repulsed by his now waxy skin and pallor. His mouth, sewn shut, was wired into something parallel to a smile, but the circumstances we were in made it morph into a grimace. Some of his colleagues and students attended the funeral. He worked at the only university in 100 miles of our little town of East Ridge, Georgia. He was a lecturer in the medical field. He was very smart.  
Early in the mornings he would dress up very smart with a tweed blazer and sweater vest. He had to drive nearly an hour to get to the university, but he always said it was worth it if he was able to educate others. Not to mention, he'd add, the pay wasn't too bad either. I suppose it was at the university that he met Jonathan. First, as a student, Jonathan was a very smart man. He skipped a couple grades and went to college early with a full-ride scholorship. (Jonathan would later tell me that he didn't have much money and was very grateful for the free education). At first Jonathan was studying to become a pharmacist, but after some coaxing switched majors to psychology.  
Jonathan told me that in college he didn't have many friends. He was lonely. I felt bad for him. He told me that he greatly respected my father, and was grateful for his encouragement to pursue psychology. He knows a lot about the mind.  


He graduated quickly and pursued his masters, then his doctorate at the same college. He was actually the youngest graduate to obtain a doctorate in the entire history of the university. During his time in school, Jonathan had interned at Arkham Asylum, an institution in the nearest city to East Ridge, Gotham. When he first told me he studied in Gotham, I admit I was frightened. It's a large city, known for high crime rates and negligent police. No sane person went to Gotham, and no person left Gotham sane. Of course, Jonathan had said he was sane. He left East Ridge when he was sixteen to go to university, and came back years later to work as the only psychologist in the small town.  
I asked him before why he would want to come back to East Ridge if he was so overqualified, but he laughed it off. I think he enjoyed being the big fish in a small pond.

* * *

His job as the sole psychologist of East Ridge was how I met him. He had his own firm where he listened to the problems of others, diagnosed them, and perscribed appropirate medication. After my father's death, my mother thought it best that we both attend regular psychiatric counciling. At first she wanted to travel the hour trek to Gotham in order to get therapy there, but after much coaxing I convinced her to go to Jonathan instead.  
Jonathan, or Dr. Crane as he first introduced himself as, was a man of about thirty years old. He loomed over my mother and I, wearing thick glasses that made him look almost bug like and a nice suit that would've been doused in sweat had his practice not been air conditioned. His hair was neatly combed back, the color somewhere between cognac and charcoal, and his eyes scanned over the two of us, chillingly cold juxtaposing his otherwise warm disposition. Scrutinizing. Like my mother and I were mere insects he was observing.  
He first sat my mother down, asking me to wait in the room his secretary was typing away in. Of course, I obliged because his request was no less than a demand. Over the course of my stay with him, Dr. Crane had never once asked anything of me. He always commanded. I don't know what he talked about with my mother, because neither party ever disclosed to me what it was, and I had never asked.  
When my mother exited his office and he ushered me in, I got the cold, sinking feeling that settled like a lead weight in my stomach. Dread crept over me, but as I glanced to Dr. Crane's back as he led me in, the anxiety seemed to ebb away.  
"Please, have a seat."


	2. The Roads I Knew

His office was a sterile room with a large mahogany desk to one side and a couch on the other. Two chairs sat across faced each other on either side of the desk, one a clean leather and the other a plush armchair. The leather chair, presumably his own, had its back to a large set of windows that overlooked a small field. On the horizon I could see a chapel.   
I quickly sat in the armchair, and Dr. Crane sat in the leather chair. His desk, virtually free of clutter, had a few folders which he shuffled around before opening one and reading the contents. I couldn't help but shift in my seat. What was he reading about? Was it about me? His lips pursed and his eyebrow furrowed, but I wouldn't dare ask him what he was thinking. 

"Abigail Bates," he began, "Age 17, no history of mental illness." Dr. Crane sat back in his seat, his eyes glaring at mine over the file. "I don't suppose it was your idea to attend these sessions, hm?" Now, I had never attended a therapy session before. Hell, the only doctors I'd met were my pediatric gp and my father's colleagues. But I'm sure doctors, especially those who would be treating mental problems, shouldn't be as blunt as Dr. Crane was.   
But, I reasoned with myself, he is the authority, isn't he? He knows what's best for me, and he's only trying to help. He's a doctor after all, with his degrees hanging on the wood in my periphary.   
He sighed. Long, drawn out, crackling. "I thought as much. Still, I don't believe it would do you harm to attend. Why don't you start by telling me about yourself. The things not on your medical record, that is."

* * *

"Officer Gordon, I suppose this is kind of like an inception, huh?" The chilly interrogation room was not unlike Jonathan's air conditioned practice. "You're interviewing me and I'm explaining my interview." I let out a humorless laugh. I swear I could see my breath.   
The cold didn't seem to bother Gordon, though. He just thumbed over his moustache and sighed. "I suppose this is a good time for a break. Would you like anything? Water? Food?" I haven't eaten in a day.  
"Food would be nice."  
"Any preference?"  
"No."   
"Alright then."

Gordon left the room and for once I had time to myself. What was I doing here? They hadn't put handcuffs on me when they took me from the hospital, but I couldn't even remember why I was at the hospital to begin with. I didn't feel any pain, but I was still pretty numb. The cold made me lose feeling in my fingers and toes. At the hospital they'd given me a t-shirt and sweatpants from the lost and found, but both were thin and didn't fit me very well. Gordon was lucky he had his bomber jacket for warmth while I had a shock blanket woven around my body.  
Gordon eventually came back to the little room, a plastic bag hung from his arm and accompanied with a waft of chinese food. He set the bag down on the table in front of me, motioning for me to start eating. I practically ripped open the bag and took out the plastic container and fork. God, I was so hungry. The food was clearly cheap takeout, but the greasy chicken and fried rice made me salivate as I devoured the meal. I didn't stop eating until the container was empty. There was a bottle of water in the bag as well, and I took it out and drank half in one go.

"You finished?"  
"Yes."  
"Let's continue then."

* * *

I was born and raised in East Ridge. It's a small community with a dwindling population because most kids are smart enough to leave the town before they end up becoming their parents, stuck in a loop of southern stereotypes. The town itself has one major "commerce" section that the residents just call "the village." There's a library, a bakery, and a couple other mundane stores in the village. Most houses are situated where the village is in the center, but there are a few houses sitting next to fields, seperated a couple acres apart from each other.  
Theres two elementary schools, each with a class size of around 15, and only one middle school/high school hybrid so you were stuck with the same goons for seven years with no other option for education. Jonathan must've felt the same restlessness that I felt because there was nothing I'd rather do than run away to university. Everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew each other's gossip. If Mr. Cassidy had an affair with Mrs. Warren, you'd know about it the next day.   
Gotham was always a constant fixture over the heads of the residents. It's the closest city to East Ridge with a population over 7,000 and has a reputation for violent crime. Luckily, it's seperated from East Ridge by miles of wheat fields and hay. Funnily enough, however, there seemed to be a running joke in East Ridge that if you're not doing well in school or have an attitude problem you'll be sent to Gotham public school for "correction."

As a kid, I had only a couple friends. Elizabeth Lowery was the daughter of the mayor, and a year older than me. We'd go to church together (though everyone went to church anyways) and we'd quietly chatter amongst ourselves in one of the back pews. I think I remember seeing Jonathan for the first time in those pews, but I couldn't be certain.  
Jonathan was probably about 15 years older than me. Maybe more. But I remember seeing the back of his head in church, when I was very little. His teenaged form was always hunched over. Gangly arms looked like a broken marionette's and his hair was always either overgrown or cut too short. Jonathan was always sat next to this sour old woman. Mary Crane, I think her name was. At the time, of course, I didn't know much about either other than the whispers the other kids told about the Crane witch and her Scarecrow son. I'd later be told that Mary Crane was just Jonathan's grandmother.  
There were two churches. One in the village, and the other on the Crane residence, far from the range of visitors and which had fallen into disrepair after Jonathan's mother passed away and stopped tending to it. I guess the chapel outside of Dr. Crane's office must've been the one on the Crane residence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Two Door Cinema Club song, "Sun"
> 
> Do you notice my naming conventions? You get a cookie if you do ;)
> 
> Also I'm very bad at writing dialogue. That's why there's not a lot of it in this fic. It's just exposition related to what characters are talking about, without the dialogue format itself.


	3. They Say the Future's Out To Get You

My mother and father, Josephine and Abraham Bates, had met in high school where they both attended East Ridge public like every other kid in the town. They grew up together, and graduated the same year, but hadn't actually started dating until after my father moved back to East Ridge after getting his degree from Gotham University. My mother still lived with her parents until she was around 26 when she moved in with my father, sharing a nice two-floor townhouse. She worked at a local diner, not glamorous, but she was a homebody through and through, and learned how to make a good plate of eggs and sausage.   
Their townhouse, which was where I spent the majority of my childhood, was an older home located within walking distance of the village. There's something about small towns where you feel safe walking the streets at midnight. In a city like Gotham, that was a death sentence, but in East Ridge I'd often walk to the town hall if I couldn't sleep. It usually took a while, on account of my tragically short legs, but I'd sit in the streetlights, gazing at the stars. In summer months I'd be in just a t-shirt and shorts, hair cropped to my shoulders and tan sported proudly, but in the winter months (though we got very little snow) chilly breezes swept over Georgia. A jacket, hoodie maybe, would accompany me on my walks. 

"Dr. Crane, you grew up here too, right?" I asked him.  
Maybe he wasn't expecting me to ask any questions about him because he visibly jumped. "Yes Ms. Bates, I did. In the more rural parts, but yes." There was something about Jonathan that I had come to learn during my stay with him; he was surprisingly twitchy despite the confidence he put forward. He tapped his pen on his desk, "Would you like to take a break? You've been speaking for a while, I'm sure your voice is tired." He stalked towards the back of the room and I had to stand to see what he was doing. A clear pitcher of water and a cup clutched in his bony hands, Dr. Crane made his way back to the desk and poured a cup.  
"Here you are. Ms. Bates-"   
"Abigail please."  
"Alright Abigail. In that case, please call me Jonathan." Jonathan. Jonathan. Jonathan. A good, Christian name. There were a few Johns in East Ridge, a couple Jacks and one Jon, but he was the only Jonathan in our town. Jonathan. Jonathan.   
He stopped the session soon after I finished the water, him guiding me back to the waiting room with his hand poised on the small of my back. If I hadn't already had chills from the air conditioning, I would've gotten goosebumps from the feeling of his hand on my back.   
My mother was sat in the waiting area. At our approach, she stood up and shook Jonathan's hand (which he had removed from my back) and she seemed to lose herself looking at him. Clearly, she was smitten, but I quickly pushed her towards the doors, passing the secretary and waving a goodbye back to Jonathan.

* * *

"What time is it?" It felt like hours since I was brought in to the police station. Officer Gordon wore a digital watch on his left wrist. He glanced at it, furrowing his brows, and pressed a couple of buttons.  
"Damn thing. I think it ran out of battery." He sighed, "No matter. You've been here long enough. You should be getting back home. Will you be alright being there by yourself?"  
"What do you mean? Where's my mother?"  
Gordon paused, eyeing me wearily. A cloud seemed to pass over the interrogation room and a draft chilled us both. "Your mother was killed a year and a half ago."

* * *

"Abigail, I know what happened to your mother." Jonathan's voice was smooth and calm. The sun was nearly setting behind him, windows filled with golden light and backlighting him in a halo of orange. "I understand it was her wish for you to continue going to these therapy sessions and I believe it is in your best interest that you continue them with me as your psychiatrist." My mouth was dry. I didn't want to talk about her. Least of all with him. "Though, since you are unemployed I don't suppose you can pay for these sessions..." He trailed off, leaving me to pick up the pieces of what he was implying.  
I swallowed whatever dryness was stuck in my mouth. "Please Jonathan," I started, "please don't drop me as a patient. I don't want to lose you as well." Up until then, Jonathan had been the most stable confident I had. My friends in high school were a couple of girls in my year, more acquaintances than actual friends, yet Jonathan had always listened. It was his job, of course, but I couldn't help but feel some sort of kinship with him. 

Perhaps privy to my inner workings, Jonathan inhaled deeply and sat back in his chair, hands bridged together and eyes glaring at mine. "I suppose I can continue my work with you, however it won't be considered 'official' sessions. We will meet outside of this office, if you're comfortable with it, and my times available are only weekends. Unless you want to meet at 4 in the morning or 10 at night?" I shook my head. He wrote something on a legal notepad and passed it to me. "Here's my personal phone number we can coordinate a date and time over text or on call. Whichever. I'm not available this weekend, but next could work." Whatever question he posed was made more of a demand than a request, so I nodded and we set an appointment for the Saturday a week from then.   
As I got up and walked out the door to the waiting room, I noticed that his receptionist had left for the night. I glanced back at Jonathan as I was leaving. His eyes bore into mine. Knowing. Pitying. Poor, poor girl. But I wasn't fragile. Shaken, maybe, but not something to pity.   
"Good night, Dr. Crane."  
"Good night, Abigail."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Hoosier's "Worried About Ray" 
> 
> Sorry for the delay


	4. Every Word is Kindling

I eagerly awaited the Saturday a fortnight away. In spite of the numb feeling I felt with my mother's death (nothing compared that which I felt with my father's), a warm feeling seemed to spread through me whenever I'd think about the appointment to come. I called Jonathan once over the absence, asking where we would meet, and he suggested his own farmhouse located a mile or two out from the center of the village.  
When I arrived (my one friend who owned a car drove me there), I could only just see the building where his practice was held. There was the chapel but an acre away, and rows of what used to be cornfields but now only housed a lone scarecrow wearing patchwork flannel and hay-hatched jeans. His face was a crude grimace, and his clothing near tatters, but there was no crows in sight so he must've been doing a good job. The farmhouse itself, I would come to learn, was just as impeccably taken care of as Dr. Crane's office. Though the exterior was weathered and scratched, the interior had been furnished with a kind touch. Comfortable.  
Jonathan greeted me at the door, and beckoned me inside to the living room. We both sat down, me on the leather loveseat and him on a wicker chair. We chatted, discussed funeral plans (since I couldn't pay for one, the church we attended held a fundraiser and had organized one for the Saturday after my meeting with Jonathan).  
"How are you feeling, with your mother's death?" He asked me.   
"I can't say." Part of me was glad. "I miss her so much." I missed what she did for me, but not the way she went about it. "I want her back." A lie. "I don't know what happened to her." A lie. "I hope she didn't suffer." A lie.  
Was it selfish of me to lie to him like that? Later on with my stay with him, Jonathan would reprimand me for fibbing. He would tell me that he already knew what I was thinking, so there was no point in lying. I wonder if he knew what I thought, even that early on in our relationship.

* * *

"What do you mean, lie to him?" Gordon's voice shook me out of my musings. "Lie? Why be glad that your only kin is deceased?" Deceased. Such a cold word, for such a personal situation. "What I mean is, what did you have to lie about?"  
Yesterday- at least I thought it was yesterday- after Gordon had broken the news that my mother was killed, I had been brought to one of the church member's houses to rest for the night. I didn't dream of anything in particular. No nightmares, no hallucinations. Just a blink of an eye and the Sun seemed to flicker awake. I was glad though, for the reprieve of interrogation, but then I was back in the cold room with nothing but a jacket I'd brought to keep me warm. No shock blanket today.  
"She was... selfish. Not cold, not mean, but after dad died... I missed having family, of course, but not her in particular." She told me not to speak ill of the dead, but I wondered if she ever really lived at all.

* * *

Though it didn't seem like it, my mother's motives for bringing me to therapy weren't as altruistic as she'd led me to believe. After the first session, it seems she just "clicked" with Jonathan. It was almost as if my dad never existed in the first place because before every session of her's, my mother would doll herself up in an effort to appease him. Makeup, permed hair, fancy clothes. She'd gush to me about his face, his height, his eyes. He was, what... 35? 37? Maybe younger, and my mom was reaching 50 by then.

Gross.

I asked my mom once, what she and Jonathan talked about but she simply said "adult things" and left me stewing because I was basically an adult anyways.   
I told Jonathan how much my mom infuriated me, even spitefully telling him about her infatuation with him. He didn't seem very phased by that though, dismissing it with a quiet chuckle and change in discussion topic. Looking back, I talked more about my mom than I talked about my dad, because I had nothing to complain about when it came to my dad. He was loving, kind, smart, gave great hugs and was very into sports like every other dad in East Ridge.  
My mother on the other hand was considerably more unconventional. She still worked at the diner (everyone just called it Suzy's though it's full name was Suzy's Brunch and Supper Diner), hardly taking any time off because she was always under the impression that she was about to receive a raise. She was gone when I took my first steps, my church recitals, my Christmas nativity plays. She wasn't around as much as I remembered at first.

The funeral was rather quick. There were very few people actually willing to speak on behalf of my mother: me, my mom's elderly employer Suzy Hill, and her coworker and closest (maybe only) friend Jeananne Fischer. The casket (closed) was lowered into the grave in the church cemetery and that was that.   
The church insisted on a closed casket. I was told by the police (after they'd come to interrogate me about the killing) that my mother's face was particularly gruesome. Rumors fluttered through East Ridge and what might've been a simple slash of the face morphed into a supposedly grotesque stitching of the lips and eyes. I didn't believe it until I saw photos of her.  
After the funeral though, I walked by myself to Jonathan's house. I was still dressed from head to toe in a black dress and stockings, but I'd ditched my shoes somewhere on the trek because the rocky trail slowed me down. When I got to his homestead, I greeted the scarecrow on the fringe of the property and knocked on his door.  
Almost in an instant, Jonathan threw the door open and ushered me inside. I couldn't see his face, but I knew it would spell out pity. Poor, poor girl. He embraced me for the first time that night, an innocent hug but it lingered in the back of my head each time I saw him. I think I cried because his soft Henley shirt reminded my of my dad.  
This hug felt more like a punch in the gut because even though it was the most comforting gesture I'd felt in nearly a year, it was the first thing that really set it into me that I was an orphan.

* * *

"Sorry. I just... I need a break." Gordon was nonplussed and passed me a box of tissues.   
"Was that what drew you to him? I mean, the idea of another dad. Was that why you liked Crane so much?"  
I sniffled. "Well, maybe at first. I don't know. I... I just liked... him, you know? He listened to what I was saying. And yeah, I guess that was his job, but like... I don't know. I liked that about him. That he made his occupation helping others by listening to their problems."  
"What was he like? Other than in therapy sessions. I recall you lived with him for a time?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break between chapters, school sucks you know?
> 
> Title from "Curses" by the Crane Wives


	5. Poison The Well

Eventually I moved in with Jonathan. I was bouncing from church member to church member until I turned 18, and when I did I was dropped and left to fend on my own. No one particularly wanted to shelter the now-adult orphan, so when I walked my way to Jonathan's house I was expecting him to close the door and ban me from his house.  
Luckily (or not), he let me in and let me stay. He let me stay at his house. I took what little posessions I had and from then resided inside of the guest bedroom across from his. The initial week was spent with me exploring the house as he worked in his practice.  
My room was clearly not inhabited for quite some time. The duvet's embroidery was sun bleached, floral wallpaper peeling off of the walls, each step I took kicked dust from the carpet into the air. I dusted and cleaned the room until I stopped sneezing from the dust.  
Jonathan's room (which I'd only peeked at once or twice at this time) was honestly rather boring. A coffee colored bedspread, a white table lamp, and bare walls were hardly anything to look at, but lord was it clean. Not a pen, book, sheet out of place. It seemed like something that would be found in a furniture magazine instead of a real person's house.  
Jonathan also had a study in the basement, but he specified I was not to go in there. Confidential patient files or something. 

The surrounding property, a couple of acres of farm land, was pretty barren as well. Mrs. Crane used to grow corn and sell it at the Saturday markets. It's pretty clear that there wasn't anyone taking care of the fields though, because the soil was exposed with only a couple of bits of hay blown from neighboring farms. Still, the scarecrow still observed the field, a remnant of what the farm used to be.

* * *

"Abigail I know what you did to your mother." The words poured over me like ice. Jonathan, with his eyes as cold as his words, bridged his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. Though we were out of his practice, without the blasting AC, I couldn't help but be chilled at his glare. "I know what you did, but I'd like to hear it from you. You remember that everything discuss is confidential right? I won't say anything to the authorities if you choose to cooperate." Lord, he looked so self-assured. Jonathan was always so confident in everything he said, as if he were God himself creating the world around him.  
"If I choose to cooperate?"  
"When you choose."   
I hesitated.  
"Don't you trust me?" And there it was. The hurt. Jonathan was always a cold man, eyes glaring and posture awkward, but his voice painted a picture like no other. He staved off most his southern accent, but when he got more emotional bits of his Georgian roots shone through.   
"Of course I trust you it's just..."  
"No, it's clear you don't trust me. You won't tell me what's on your mind even though I'm only here to help you. Abigail," He paused, pushing up his glasses, "I'm only here to help. You're staying in my house for free. You're in therapy for free. My interests lie solely within your wellbeing, can' you see that?" Lord, I felt guilty. Feel. I don't know what I feel anymore, but I know that at that time, his words really cut me. So much so that I confessed.

* * *

"Officer? What I say here, I mean. What I say here is... still confidential right? I won't be in trouble, right?"  
He scratched his moustache in thought. "Well... depends on what you say here. Depends on the... say, circumstances."

* * *

So I told him.  
"I hurt her. Bad. She didn't really do anything... I just... hit her a couple times."  
"How many times?"   
"I don't know. 5? 6? It was at night. I hit her and I ran away and when I came back she... she was dead. I didn't kill her though! I didn't!"  
"I know Abigail, I know." Jonathan's ever present confidence never wavered in his voice. He believed me. He really did. "Now Abigail," he murmured, "The police don't know you had fight with her. They don't know you ran away at all. They think you were there when she was killed. You're a suspect." I shouldn't have been a suspect, I did nothing wrong!   
"Jonathan-"  
"Quiet. Now listen to me Abigail: I can try to convince them otherwise. I can tell them that you are innocent, and that you were in a session with me at the time of the murder, but you have to listen to me. Do exactly what I say."   
"Ok. Ok anything. Anything you say." I was desperate and naive.  
"Perfect. Now, until your name is cleared of any suspicion, you have to stay here. No leaving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crane's manipulation is surfacing a little more...
> 
> Chapter title from "Feed the Machine" by Poor Man's Poison

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title taken from the Alec Benjamin song, "Mind is a Prison"


End file.
